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Totally unprepared for any kind of reaction to his mumbles, Vico swiftly replied to his new friend with a decisive "Ehm..?", which was sadly cut short by the strong yank destroying his posture and landing him flat on his back.

As he lay staring straight up into the big guy's face, Vico's hands instinctively shot up in front of his own. He eyed the trouser bulge for a second or so, and his eyes widened as he dropped open a quivering jaw and then looked back to his assailant's face. "Woahwoahwoahwoah, hey buddy, hey..." he rapidly fumbled, waving his hands back and forth, his brain spinning in his skull trying to fling together some kind of way out. "I.. I wasn..." He froze mid-speech as he hastily latched onto a plan so flimsy he could hardly believe he was actually going ahead with it.

"...Aw, now, I must apologise..." Vico started off, his hands stopped fidgeting and he held his right palm out slightly, "...For me and my damn uptown accent gettin' me into another... kerfuffle." He proceeded, bringing his extended hand down against his chest and shaking his head, slowly calming himself before letting out a tiny chuckle as his face shifted into a soft smile. "I'm sorry, I-i think you misheard me, let me explain...?" Vico stopped for a moment, hoping he'd bought himself a little time away from the mystery bulge.

This, Craig decided, was quite bad. The establishment he had found himself in had limited exits, which meant that in the event of a riot, or some other kind of violence, he'd be left with very few ways out. He might even have to break through a window, and attempt to fit his rotund frame through the small opening that would be left.

"But then again..." started Craig, before remembering that in this setting, other people could overhear him. But then again...a riot's unlikely. he thought, calming himself down. He wondered where he had gotten the idea of a riot in a bar from, anyway. It must have been the huge amount of alcohol he had consumed throughout the day. He sipped away at his bottle again, before glancing over to his right. Craig's fears returned, this time, slightly justified. Two complete thugs appeared to be having an argument, and one of them had just pulled the other one of his seat. Craig remembered the combat training he had gained from watching animals fight, and knew that if a brawl broke out, he could survive it by crouching down, and letting out a shrill high-pitched shriek, before chanting and scuttling for the door.

Mister Kite's Saloon

Unless Craig went on an immediate and dramatic diet, it was unlikely that his "thick-boned" self would be able to fit through the windows of the bar. Most of the windows of the bar were narrow and tall, and the only ones that weren't, the windows at the front of the saloon, were blocked by a metal mesh. The bar, it seemed, was prepared for some sort of siege from the outside, perhaps to stop a police crackdown on an illegal moonshine operation, not to facilitate rapid exit from a fight inside the premises.

"I ain't letting you explain nothing! I know your kind! I know what "explain" means to you! It'll be me explaining how things will work out to you!” the thug shouted, his face growing as red and as angry as the tattoo on his cheek. He moved his hands to his trousers, moving his weapon up just enough for Lodovico to see the handle of a knife or a baton or something. “I’m gonna teach a lesson to your face!” he shouted, thinking himself to be a pure legend, and failing to realise that using such clichéd patter actually made him out to be a bit of a gimp.

The skinhead then pulled out a makeshift club, some sort of badly-crafted pole, thicker in the middle than in the top or the bottom, with a leather handle that didn’t really seem to quite fit. When the man put the club to its side, the handle slid to the middle, and when he held it up straight again, it slipped down, following gravity, only just staying on to the rest of the weapon. He glared at the fallen actor, lifted his trudgeon and then went to bring it down of Lodovico’s head.

But, he never did. When he pulled the bat over his shoulder, it was wrenched from out of his hand. The thug was taken by surprise, slipping back an inch or two, like an unskilled ice hockey player, his face going from an angry stare to that of his usual chimpanzee-like self. He wheeled around, and was confronted by the musician who had only stopped playing a few moments ago. If having his weapon seized had confused the man, what he saw now was even more bizarre. Up close, Lodovico and the man could see that the musician was really quite slight, perhaps three inches or so smaller than the average height for a male. His small stature, however, disguised a strangely powerful aura coming from the man, a feeling that he was stronger than might usually be anticipated from someone of his size.

Despite the tension in the room, the musician appeared quite calm, holding the club in his hand, righting it and then letting it drop to the ground. He smiled at the gimpish thug, giving a quick and reassuring glance to Lodovico. “Now, why don’t we settle this over a drink or four? No need for violence here, pal. I’m sure this is all just an honest mistake.”

The thug sneered at the other man, displaying as much contempt as his attraction-impaired face could muster.

“[&@%!] off. I’m not your pal.” God’s greatest mistake took a closer look at the musician, his eyes widening, sobering with recognition. “I know who you are! You’re one of them rebels! Those subservice or sub-something people! You see this tattoo? You see it!?” he shouted this last part, pointing fiercely to his cheek. “This is my decidation to the Duke! You’re for it, pal.”

Of course, the musician was horribly and emotionally scarred by this sarcastic use of the word ‘pal’ and wished he could fade into the air to escape the embarrassment. Before he could do this, however, the criminal scum swung at the musician, hoping to take him by surprise. He was not successful, however, as his opponent was ready for him and grabbed his arm, twisting it. The man was sent reeling to the floor.

He stumbled to his feet, thirsting for more violence, but his attempt was ended by a quick kick from the heel of a cowboy boot. This sent him into a pile of empty barstools, knocking them over. The thug reached his hand out to the counter, to steady himself, but slipped. His hand swiped right across the surface, sending glasses and pint tumblers (both empty and full) flying to the floor. In particular, Sampson Shylock’s drink was sent tumbling to the ground. The sound of breaking glass punctuated the air, bringing the fight to everyone’s attention. The barman didn't particularly seem to care that WWE had temporarily-repossessed his saloon, but the reactions of his patrons could be different.

The body of the boar-faced brute near the bottom of Sampson's bar stool filled him with pure contempt as he looked casually down at it. Whatever this thing was, it certainly appeared to be of subhuman intelligence, and the fact that its maelstrom of flailing rage ruined five dollars of good scotch only made Sampson's displeasure grow. He stood up, careful and calm, attempting to place his boot on the throat of this drunken beast, and keep it down. "You owe me a drink, [&@%!]." He muttered, slightly tipsy.

Rhea

"For fock's sake." Rhea uttered as WWE interfered with the Saloon and a free for all for the Heavyweight violent idiot title broke out. She had no reason to interfer and no-one was paying her so the free entertainment was rather amusing. Even if it did put the inn at risk of turning into a no holds barred match with guns.

"Oh God! It's happening!" screamed Craig, terror filling his pudgy face. His worst fear, that a multi-person, multi-side brawl would break out in his general area, appeared to have been realised. He had no real clue how to escape this unfortunate situation, which would no doubt result in his death (because that was the kind of thing that happened to Craig).

"Quick thinking" as always, Smith grabbed his bottle, and smashed it down on his table, covering himself in incredibly low ABV juice. Now wielding a broken bottle, Smith pushed himself off his chair, and squatted down in a combat position, holding the bottle like it was a greatsword, before attempting to scuttle towards the door, going: "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEH!" the whole time.

For the first few moments of Cuddles' interactions with the singer, Vico lay frozen in place, his gaze shifting back and forth between the two, pondering whether or not he should bow out of the spotlight.

With the fight commencing, and the combatants moving away, Vico scrambled backwards until he was up against a wall. Wait, What the hell?... how exactly did I start it this time?!

I did not start this! He scratched the back of his head; panic shifting into confusion as he watched the brawl before him.

Mister Kite's Saloon

The thug looked up at Sampson with a mixture of fear, surprise and anger. He tried to struggle, but the combined presence of Sampson and the singer (not to be confused with the sub-par runners-up of last year's Hunger City's Got Talent, Sampson and the Singers) kept him down. Suddenly, however, Sampson found himself being seized round the ribs by the fat arms of the thug's friend, a man who happened to also be an exquisitely ugly specimen of a human being. He had so far been content to let his friend make a fool of himself in front of everyone in the saloon, but when a third person got involved in the fight, the friend had risen from his chair to go and help the thug out.

A second friend had also risen (how the thug had so many friends, no-one knew, but they were presumably as shameless as he was) from his chair, but accidentally tripped over Craig Smith, the rather odd and rotund fellow making his way slowly towards the door.

The thug seized on this chance to free himself, using his legs to leverage himself into standing position. In doing so, he displayed an almost-unnatural physical talent for someone as fat as he was. The singer was taken on unawares by this, not expecting such a display from his opponent. The criminal seized the opportunity, sending his fist slamming into the stomach of the musician, who recoiled momentarily in pain. He could not further push his advantage, for the singer recovered and grabbed the thug’s arm when he went to punch again, this time twisting it.

Rhea

Rhea merely watched the free entertainment but she would not hestiate to get violent if she was dragged into it.

Craig went flying into the ground, and covered his head, before trying to crawl towards the door. Smith, who did not understand the complete situation, was rather sure that he had just been assaulted by some kind of mugger, or thief, and so expected an additional blow to come any time now.

"Get away from me!" he screamed, full of terror. "I do not consent! I do not consent! I do not consent!" Smith repeated, believing that some kind of freeman of the land approach would get him out of this nightmare.

Sampson, even further enraged, attempted to violently elbow the man grabbing him in the side, hopefully to dislodge his grip.

Mister Kite's Saloon

The thug’s friend, whose grip on Sampson had only tightened with time, was staggered by the elbows from Sampson. He dropped Sampson roughly to the ground, and staggered back as if he were a complete alcoholic, who had just been forced to move slightly left of his intended destination, and was now entirely confused as to where he was. In doing this, he tripped over his mate, who had tripped over Craig Smith, and went flying past Winston Howe, and into Rhea Torli, his head cracking into the wall, which resulted in his lights being knocked out. The man was presumably concussed, but if he didn’t want to get brain damage, he ought not to have intervened in the first place.

Meanwhile, the thug and the musician stood staring at each other. With his arm firmly twisted, the thug was unable to move for fear of breaking it. Evidently, he had not expected the comparatively small singer to possess such strength. The musician placed his foot at the knee of the thug, and drove the man down to a kneeling position.

“Listen here, I’m going to let you go, but if you ever cause trouble in here again, I’ll bash your head in.” said the singer, who had seemingly had enough of the antics of the thug.

The man nodded apprehensively, and when he was let up, he sprinted out the front door, paying no attention to his mate, or to Vico, who he had apparently forgotten about. As he left the saloon, he cursed everyone in it, swearing revenge, shouting some nonsense about bringing his mates to sort them out.

“Some people…” muttered the singer, before turning to Sampson and Vico. “You two alright?” He then noticed the other thug, near Craig, Rhea, and Winston. “I forgot that there’s another one of them. He doesn’t look like much of a problem right now, anyway.”

Rhea Torli

Rhea would have belted the fooker that got thrown into her on account of her beer being spilt down her front on impact if he wasn't knocked out. She liked that beer. It wasn't the best but it was a good beer. "If the fooker tries to be a problem, I'll be more then happy to break it's fooking arm." She remarked. She was a bit miffed about her ruined beer. She hated it when beers got ruined. It was one of the few precious pasttimes she had left.

"OH NO!" screamed Craig, as another man fell over him. The big walrus squirmed around on the ground, believing that he was under assault from multiple different people. "Save me! Save me!" he shouted to any bystanders.

Vico pushed himself off the ground slowly, then stood and twisted around to look down his back. "Got some dust on me down there..." He turned back to face the singer, "...But aside from that, I think I'm good. And Heeey, thanks!" He nodded once to the singer, then a second later, to Sampson, grinning throughout.

"Heh, but shame all the fists had to fly, I'd just thought'a this great story..." Vico joked, shrugging his shoulders before stepping towards the singer and holding out his hand, and pointing the other towards himself. "Vico, pleasure to meet ya."

"I'm alright... Though, I admit, I'm still a bit bitter about that scotch." Sampson stretched his arms a bit, feeling the freedom from the goon's grip. "Sampson Shylock." He extended a black leather-covered hand toward Vico, meeting his open hand with a firm grip. "I take it this is your first time to Mr. Kite's Saloon, yeah?"

"Gueeess I ain't lookin' as smooth around here as I think, eh?" He returned the grip, adding fervent shaking to the mix. "But, uh, yeah, I was waiting for an associate, place was his choice. Oh, and sorry about the drink." He released Sampson's hand, glancing over at the scattered trays and shattered glass. "Don't worry, I'm guessin' the next round's on our new buddies heads... eventually." Vico pointed his thumb towards the two thugs.

Vico turned his attention to the singer, offering another hand. "And you mister! I'm thinkin' I held onto some teeth thanks to you."

Mister Kite's Saloon

The singer grasped Vico's hand, giving it a firm and sincere shake and giving Vico the slightest of friendly smiles. Once done with these pleasantries, he quickly turned to the barman, circling himself, Vico and Sampson with a swirling finger above their heads, and nodded. Apparently, the musician was enough of a regular here to communicate with the barman through vague hand gestures and nods.

"You're wrong to expect anything from those goons. They have nothing to give to anyone, except the Duke. If he even exists." he said to his new-found friends. "The next round of scotch is on me."

The people at the bar seemed to ignore Craig. At least, they seemed to ignore Craig to the extent that his wild wailing would allow them to. Those few people that were unable to completely divert their attention from him stared at him as though he were some sort of rampant sex offender who had escaped police custody.

"Get up, son," Winston told Craig, who was just a few feet away from his table. "You're making a damned fool of yourself. The fight's over."

"Ah, right" Vico replied, his eyes shot to the floor and he felt a twinge of embarrassment. For a moment he considered refusing the drink, politeness be damned. He'd been in this dank pit too long already, and he had never had much of a taste for spirits anyway. After all, it certainly hadn't helped his father; Old Umberto had everything laid out for him, all the bits and pieces he needed to take New York by storm. He was a jewel of Manhattan, but he could have strolled into a commie bar in Detroit in his skivvies, and then right back out again an hour later with a bouquet of roses. His father's charm, with his uncle's caution and connections, and they'd have been golden; shaking hands with the Duke himself with all of the city at their fingertips.

Then he got drunk, and sick, and dead.

Vico looked back towards the singer. "Very kind of you, much obliged." Vico said, his smile betraying his distraction. His eyes drifted over to one of the thugs, and then a thought popped back into his head. "Say, what was that big guy yelling about anyway? I might have been mishearing, but I think I got something about 'subservice' or some such." Vico shrugged, "Who knows?". But slowly, he put the pieces of the conversation back together. Rebels. 'If the Duke exists'. Just who was this guy?

Craig looked around, and realised quite slowly that the fighting had in fact ended, and that there was no chance of someone killing him before he could employ his martial arts skills against them. Slowly, he picked himself up, (Which was quite hard, being that he was so fat) and dusted himself off.

"We really showed them, didn't we?"